Or…in Academic Terms

The overall quiddity (sic) or, thusly, goal, as it were, to be stated, clearly and indelibly, of this exploratory blog post (ad hoc, academic text) on the issue, thereof and henceforth, at present, of the quality, or lack of henceforth, of these texts, and a further (inquisitive) discussion upon whether or not, one relatively intelligent human being (aka: Homo sapiens and in some, although minimal cases, Neanderthal and more minimally, Erectus), can, without guided expertise, focus on that and in and of itself, the material per se that the imbibed is in hope of attaining the information here and of other sources that he, or she, if so be the case, can attain.

And why that sucks.

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We are in one of Prague’s many Christmas markets and it’s something like a European Norman Rockwell painting. The markets are made up of several wooden huts offering various manufactured items, handmade wares and homemade food and drinks. In one place you can buy a bong, a homemade candle, a roasted pork knee and top it off with a svařak (hot spiced wine).

After stuffing our faces with hot wine and hotdogs, we step over to the entertainment center. This center consists of a kiddy swimming pool filled with carp and the entertainment consists of a large man lifting a carp from the pool, gingerly laying it on a table and beating it to death before filleting it.

I’m guessing that Norman Rockwell would have left out all the bludgeoning, decapitating and eviscerating.

In any case, Veselé Vánoce and Merry Christmas!

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The Chili is bubbling away on the pot like a witch’s cauldron. I am sitting at the table, sipping a Gambrinus while eating an appetizer of sausages with Sauerkraut.

My stomach sends forth a rumble from its very pit and I smile like an evil genius. I seal the deal by opening the soy dip and crackers and filling up a bowl with chili.

After I eat and drink to absolute capacity, it is ready for action. I feel another angry lurch in my intestinal system and leave my flat. I hit the button to the lift.

See, it all started today at 7 a.m.

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3 a.m.

My nostrils have been hermetically sealed for six hours. I visit the bathroom on average three times every four minutes. And there are angry elves drilling holes into the side of my brain and poking swords into the back of my eyes. I get up and observe the living corpse in the mirror. Something climbs out of my nose and starts singing and my hair has revolted against the rest of my body.

It’s official, I am dying. Though there’s the off-chance it’s the flu.

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Federico is a man with the head of a camel who is trying to become a liver salesman in Dubai. He is at the airport with his mother and a man named Smedley, who is pretending to drink gin, but is having a problem pretending it when he’s on his roller skates.

This is a big problem, especially for Federico, since he just sold his falafel stand to a group of hippies from Detroit. Smedley leaves the airport to become an auto mechanic and dies while eating liver in London.

Nobody is happy about this, so they board the airplane with a bag full of money and waffles.

If my Czech is correct, this perfectly describes the plot of the play I am watching.

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I move through Prague’s Hlavní nádraží (main train station) towards the metro with the heads-down intent of a New York City commuter. Already at 5:30 p.m. the sun has set and the wet weather adds a “let’s put hemlock in our milk” mood into the quiet atmosphere. Making matters worse, I substituted a lesson today which introduced a few impolite students into my otherwise predictable day. I have been carrying around that anger all day.  My goal, like everyone else, is to get from point A (work) to point B (kitchen).

However, when I hear a shouted grumble and glimpse a flurry of ragged clothing, I move out of the cattle line to get a perspective. There are three of them; two men and a woman. The woman is with one of the men; they have matching jackets and His & Hers gaps in their teeth. At the genesis of the argument I ask a woman what they are saying. She doesn’t know, but mentions with interest that there is something about chicken and underwear. The possibilities are endless, but one thing is very clear:

We are about to see a bum fight.

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It’s Pizza Day, which is my favorite day of the week. It’s a (scheduled) day every week on which I am allowed to eat pizza. To rationalize, it’s always a reward for something. This week it’s a reward for eating Brussels sprouts and broccoli. Pizza Day is always on a day off, so that it can be fully exploited with an entire Pizza Day regimen. This week it’s on Thursday, which is my home-office day.

In the morning I go shopping for pizza and the other things I’ll need to repair my body the day after Pizza Day. Then I take a bath and read about Abraham Lincoln. I organize the fridge and freezer, and then groom the cat with her awesome new grooming brush (Good Girl Cat Brush 69Kc at Tesco). I finalize preparations by downloading a good movie to watch with the pizza (A Man Called Horse starring Richard Harris, 1970, 114 minutes, color).

In my 38^th year on this planet, this is what passes for excitement.

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There were two fat guys at the symphony that evening, the guy to my left and the guy to his right. We did not arrive together.

The man who walked into the Rudolfinum that evening was the fattest Czech I had ever seen. He waddled up the aisle with a dignity peculiar to sea mammals, and wore the somnolent mask of a pasta-stuffed mafia boss.

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The chicken is in the oven, the floors are drying and the washing machine is rumbling like my stomach after a double order of Rogan Josh from Ali Baba’s. All is right with the world.

We all have guilty pleasures. I know childless carpenters who watch Disney cartoons every weekend and PhD academics who, after three Gimlets, can name every Days of our Lives character. I know rugby players who dress as women for Halloween and then spend the entire evening alone on the couch watching movies in a dress and garter belt.

Domestic Sunday is my weekly guilty pleasure.

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A massive wave hits a tranquil monk banging a gong; an enormous aircraft carrier gets flipped by the ironically unpeaceful Pacific Ocean. After that, there are meteors hitting the Empire State building and tidal waves the size of mountains hitting New York City. Then Hitchcock’s birds, Godzilla, grumpy aliens, several airborne viruses and zombies.

No matter how you cut it, we are doomed.

This describes the cinematic line up in my house the day after (no pun intended) I read the science and nature section on Smithsonian.com or National Geographic. This week the article that attracts my sadomasochistic attention is ‘10 Disturbing Scientific Discoveries.’ I immediately click to read about the angry universe, which is evidently gunning for us humans for thinking that we have been the center of it for so long. And for Bjork music. I go on to read about how we are in between ice ages, and how the end of the human race, which is around the corner, promises to come in Micheal Bay-esque cinematic fashion. As if the world ending isn’t bad enough, it has to end like a Michael Bay movie. In other words, insult is introduced to injury.

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